


Credibility

by Guardian Of The Lotus (DistantStorm)



Series: Fictober 2019 [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: City Food, Multi, Romance, a date but it definitely didn't start as one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/Guardian%20Of%20The%20Lotus
Summary: Hawthorne brings Zavala to a clan mixer.Written for day 1 of the Fictober 2019 Challenge on Tumblr: "It will be fun, trust me."





	Credibility

**Author's Note:**

> I know we talk about chicken nuggets and root beer, bagpipes and synthesizers being code for "netflix and chill," but what if it really happened?

Zavala is apprehensive the moment they arrive. The clan rally is being held in a wide plaza that empties to cozy greenspace on one side, and an expanse of buildings that becomes the Peregrine District on the other. The music is loud, and the smell of roasting meat and steaming seasoned vegetables carries on the wind.

And there are a _lot_ of people, Guardians and Civilians alike. Some are dancing near the fountain, others are parked on wide rugs and blankets, sharing food and drink, all of them carrying on. It’s clear someone’s rigged up fireworks - he can see the chutes propped up against the top of a nearby building. It looks like a fire hazard.

Fingers wrap around his wrist. “Come on. Food first. The good stuff doesn’t last long.” Hawthorne flashes him a grin and tugs him along. 

Instead of looking around at the people and the games and the sense of community, he finds himself staring at the back of her head, at the peach head-scarf that’s translucent against her dark hair. Unlike most civilians and off-duty Guardians, she doesn’t wear the bright patterns that are in style. Her tunic is the same peachy-orange of her scarf, more solidly so, and her pants are a dark maroon. It’s bizarre to see her in something beside her poncho.

He’s brought back to reality with a skewer of meat waved in front of his face. “You still with me?” He blinks, and she hands him a skewer. Taking his distraction for discomfort, she adds, “This’ll be fun, trust me.”

“What?”

“They seem really overwhelming - and don’t get me wrong, if we stay too late the crazies will come out. But,” She waits for him to take a bite of the skewer she’s given him, nodding appreciatively at the flavor as it falls apart on his tongue, “These guys work really hard to keep each other and this part of the City afloat. Work hard, play hard, y’know?”

He does.

Not long after they arrive the sun sets. Instead of streetlights, the food stands and fountain, the trees in the park are strung up with golden lights. It’s surreal, lending to a festival atmosphere in this little corner of the City herself. The music turns to something a bit more trendy, fast beats and synthesized tones, most of the old and young, the less party-going crowd clearing out. 

In the dim lighting, the glow of his irises are no more obvious than any other Awoken, and since no one is expecting him, everyone leaves him alone. Hawthorne is not as lucky, fielding well-wishers and drink offers, even the occasional Guardian asking her to dance. She laughs and lets them carry on, content to sit back and watch the evening unfold.

Until five of them come by, a combination of scouts and Guardians. He knows he’s seen the human contingent before, and the Guardians - he knows they’ve come by recently for bounties. “Come on,” They chorus, giddy and free. “You promised us that if we saw you at one of these things you’d dance.”

She looks to him as if he’s going to save her and he shrugs, not terribly concerned to see her go out onto the floor. To that frowns, dropping her scarf, knowing it’s only going to fall off in the tangle of bodies, or worse - get caught. She drops it over her chair neatly, a few stray strands of her fringe dipping to frame her face. 

“Only if you convince him,” She says, and watches as the happily buzzed group tries to pull up the Vanguard Commander from his seat. “Come on,” She tells him, laughing hard, when one of them recognizes him, stops, and then trips over the rest of his buddies trying to get away. When they’re out of range, she reasons, “I think you can manage one song.”

“Hawthorne,” He warns.

She pushes, “I thought all Guardians knew how to dance?”

“Do you?” He deadpans.

Not to be outdone, she quips, “Why don’t you find out?”

He shakes his head, and Hawthorne smirks, knowing she has him. The drink at his elbow is nearly gone anyway, so he finishes it, a rueful smile curving his lips. “You’re going to regret this,” He tells her, getting to his feet. 

Hawthorne laughs; It’s an earthy, rich sound that’s as warm as her hands reaching for both of his. When they’re eye-to-eye, she has the nerve to tell him, “I really, really won’t.”

-/

“I have blisters on my feet. Next time I’m wearing my boots.” She carries them in one hand, dangling on the ends of her fingers. 

He laughs as she reaches over his arm with her spare hand to grab at the drink they’re sharing, polishing it off with a loud slurp. The plaza is a mess, but that’s a problem for the sweeperbots ambling about and tomorrow’s cleaning crew. 

“Did you eat all the chicken nuggets? If you did, you’re going to get more.”

“You’re the one who finished the root beer,” He counters. 

“I told you to get two.” She leans her body weight into the shoulder pressed against his; They’re side by side, sitting on the edge of the fountain. “You insisted you wouldn’t like it.”

“It was all they had left.”

“It’s good, and you know it.”

He levies an eyebrow at her, but she only smiles wider. He won’t agree aloud, but she can see his lips resisting the urge to curl up to match. “I suppose it’s acceptable.”

“You’re ridiculous. Admit it: you had a good time, you ate greasy City food, danced the night away-”

“It’s not morning yet.”

“It will be by the time you walk me home.” She knows he will, too. 

He must know it as well; He doesn’t bother to deny it. “I will say this was not nearly as dreadful as I expected.”

“You act like this whole thing was put on by Hunters.” 

“I saw Marcus Ren setting off the fireworks.”

“Semantics. It wasn’t _all_ Hunters.” Hawthorne rolls her eyes. “Okay. Real talk,” She begins, looking at him following a particularly loud pull of the melting dregs of ice left in their root beer. “Would you do this again?”

“Depends.” He offers her the last chicken nugget in the bag. She doesn’t think twice about seizing it, hardly chewing before she swallows it down. He’s certain they’ll be getting more if the way she’s checking the bag is any indication. “How many of these do you go to?”

“Couple here or there. Most of the time I leave way before last call, though.” She crumples up the empty bag into a compact ball and chucks it at a garbage can. It bounces off. A sweeper frame chirps and sidles up to it, sweeping it away before either of them can move to pick it up. “This was probably the most fun I’ve had.”

“I think I could be persuaded,” He supposes. “This certainly beats most Consensus functions.” 

“Please. Anything beats those.”

“Anything?”

Their eyes meet. The mood changes with the subtlest lurch, her head dropping to his shoulder almost casually. “Yeah,” She sighs, eyes closing. “This is more my speed.”

“Is it?” He looks down at her through half lidded eyes.

Hers open at the question, dark gaze falling to his lips. She accidentally drops her shoes in the fountain, but that’s forgotten in the haze of her other hand being pressed to his chest by his with a small squeeze.

He lifts her chin.

Behind them, a frame emits a solitary purple blink.


End file.
